Monster High 3: Where There's a Wolf, There's a Way

by Lisi Harrison

  “I told you she wouldn’t tell us,” said the pink-streaked pixie.

  “They came from the endangered Carver bird,” Candace announced. “The species sheds once every four years over a remote bear cave in Montana. Melody here, a celebrated bird-watcher, is the only one who knows the cave’s exact location.” Candace probably assumed the feathers came from the ravine, but she had been so proud of her sister’s signature look that she’d been promoting it like a pop-up shop.

  The freshmen gawked at Melody with renewed interest, their expressions a mix of wonder and geek-pity.

  Candace checked her surroundings and then summoned them closer. In a gossip-sharing whisper she said, “Did you know that”—she glanced over her shoulder—“Christian Dior hired Melody to gather Carver feathers for his spring collection?”

  They shook their heads.

  “You obviously haven’t seen his couture dresses,” Candace said, her tone seasoned with a dash of snob and a dollop of shame-on-you.

  Melody’s cheeks burned as the girls eyed her with newfound respect. Her sister was obviously working an angle. But which one?

  “Christian offered fifty thousand euros to get his hands on ten more. Turns out Taylor Swift wanted to wear them in her updo at the Emmys. But Melly said she gave him everything.” Candace winked conspiratorially. “Shh. What happens at a bear cave in Montana stays at a bear cave in Montana. Right?”

  Tickled to be in on the secret, the girls giggle-nodded.

  “But,” Candace bellowed, adjusting her glasses, “if you sign our petition and promise not to tell Christian, you can each have one.”

  She peeked at Melody to see if that was okay. Melody nodded. She had an entire drawerful of them at home.

  Squealing with delight, the girls took turns scribbling their names in the last six spaces on the sheet. After each signature, Melody pulled an olive and blue feather from her hair and handed it over. “Careful with the tip,” she added. “It’s real gold.”

  Candace held in a laugh.

  “We promise,” they said, almost in unison. After ditching their trays on the nearest table, they hurried off to spend some much-needed time with their locker mirrors.

  “Done!” Melody high-fived her sister, her pride double what it would have been had she used her persuasive power.

  Candace jammed the pen into her ballerina bun and declared, “Mrs. Stern-Figgus out!” Then, like a superhero exhibitionist, she untied her trench and let it fall to the sticky floor, revealing a prim pink blouse with a flouncy neck bow and Hudsons cuffed to her thighs. She unrolled the jeans, kicked off her heels, pulled a pair of flats from her back pocket, and scooped up her coat. “To the principal’s office!”

  Melody burst out laughing, wondering if she would be confident and free-spirited like Candace if they shared the same blood. Not that it really mattered: They shared a life. And for that she was grateful.

  Candace and Melody charged past the buxom secretary toward the half-open door of Principal Weeks’s office.

  “Ladies!” called Mrs. Saunders, pulling off her headset. “Fifth period has started—”

  “It’s okay,” Candace insisted. “We have a note.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” The secretary stood. “He’s in a meeting.”

  “Ignore us,” Melody insisted.

  Mrs. Saunders began blinking and then sat. “Will do.”

  “Dang, we make a good team,” Candace said, tossing her coat onto an empty chair.

  Melody eyed the clipboard in her sister’s hand. They really did work well together.

  “Sir?” Candace knocked, and then pulled Melody into the principal’s office. It smelled like meatballs and cologne.

  Principal Weeks quickly closed out a window on his computer and sat up straighter. “Shouldn’t you be in class?”

  “Absolutely,” Candace said, with more sugar than Frosted Flakes. “We just wanted to give you this.” She approached his desk with such confidence that her blouse bow bounced.

  “And it is…?” He wrapped his half-eaten sandwich in waxed paper and pushed it aside.

  “The petition for your board meeting today,” Melody said.

  He narrowed his eyes in confusion.

  “To get Ms. J back,” she added.

  “Ah, yes,” he said, remembering. “If I recall, I said I needed one hundred signatures to—”

  Candace waved the clipboard. “Got ’em.”

  “You found one hundred Merston students to stand up for Ms. J?”

  Candace nodded proudly.

  “Not everyone is afraid of RADs, you know,” Melody said.

  “True, but I hear her pop quizzes are terrifying.” He burst out laughing.

  “Sir.” Melody clenched her fists. “You need to take this seriously.”

  Candace turned around and hissed, “Melly!”

  It’s okay, she mouthed back.

  Principal Weeks began blinking. “You’re right.”

  “Maybe some of the parents are afraid of change, but the students are not. We want it. And we’re not afraid to say it,” Melody went on.

  “Prejudice out!” Candace said, handing him the clipboard.

  “People couldn’t wait to sign,” Melody added for effect.

  “Is that so?” said Principal Weeks, scanning the signatures.

  The girls nodded confidently.

  Snickering, he asked, “Then how do you explain this?” He offered the clipboard to Candace and folded his arms across his wrinkled gray suit. Reading over her sister’s orchid-scented shoulders, Melody gasped. There were one hundred names on the petition, but only a dozen were real. The others read like the corny Jokes for the John bathroom book her father had gotten at an office holiday party.

  Ima Horny… Emma Loser… Sue Age… N.M.E. Agent… Ray D. Aider… Mort U. Airy… Terri Aki… Colin Allcars… Dennis Anyone… Hal Apenyo… Jerry Atric… Tony Award… Oscar Goesto… May Balleen… Fallon Doun… Kent Gedup…

  Melody couldn’t go on. Tears began to form, pinching the backs of her eyes. The names began to blur. Dizzy from a cyclone of humiliation and defeat, she tried to focus on the maples outside the window. But their leafless branches made her feel more alone.

  “Didn’t you check them?” she whispered to her sister.

  Candace sighed. “Maybe they were too afraid to give their real names.”

  “Sorry, girls,” Principal Weeks said sincerely. “I know how hard you tried. And between us, I wish things would change around here too. But I have a board to please and…”

  Melody wanted to cover her ears and scream. Why were adults so afraid of taking a stand? Could a job really be more valuable than human decency? Progress more terrifying than stagnation? Coexistence more threatening than war? Melody hated herself for listening to that woman. So what if she changed the course of events? Wasn’t that the point?

  “Principal Weeks,” she said, interrupting his butt-kissing ode to the board. Maybe he was scared to use his voice, but Melody wasn’t. Not anymore. “I insist that you—”

  Beep.

  Mrs. Saunders’s voice crackled over the intercom. “Caroline Madden on line one for you, sir.”

  “Excuse me,” he said, stiffening. “I have to take this call, girls.”

  “But—”

  “Hang in there,” he said, and then picked up the phone. “Caroline, hi. How’s Bekka feeling?”

  Candace, who had no experience with rejection, snapped, “NUDIs out!” and slammed the principal’s door behind them. She grabbed her coat, mumbled something about not being able to wait for college, and then ditched school for the rest of the day.

  Melody, however, had no intention of sulking. She promised that woman she’d try not to use her powers, and she had tried. And failed. This time she would do things her way.

  For the rest of the afternoon, she told every RAD-hater she could find to go to Clawdeen’s Sassy Sixteen. Once they’d gathered, she would order them to embrace all RADs and unite them on a mission
to bring back Ms. J from wherever she was planning to go.

  Jackson would come home.

  The controlling environmentalist with the seafoam-green eyes would leave.

  Clawdeen’s party would go down as the event that brought everyone together.

  And destiny would be changed forever.

  Finally.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  MOTHER TRUCKER

  Clawdeen’s phone pinged with another what’s your ETA? text from Cleo, and she quickly shut it off.

  “Remind me why I planned my Sassy Sixteen so close to the full moon?” she asked Lala as they descended the inn’s green-carpet staircase.

  “We all warned you,” she insisted, wagging her pale finger. “But you insisted it had to be date-accurate or it would feel fake.”

  “Well, I wish you’d made me un-insist. So far I’ve spent my entire birthday waxing, clipping my nails, and peeing.”

  “Whaddaya think would happen after you drank two pots of that Tame and Tranquil herbal tea?” She smiled, her newly Whitestripped fangs proudly on display.

  “I had to do something,” Clawdeen snapped. “I transition in two days. I’m having severe mood-management issues.” She stopped to check her curls in the foyer mirror. Still full and shiny, they had at least three more hours before new growth dragged down their bounce. Plenty of time to make an entrance and pose for pictures.

  “Maybe it’s a good thing the Sassy was canceled,” Lala said, standing beside Clawdeen and reglossing her gloss. After years of friendship, Clawdeen was still caught off guard by the vamp’s missing reflection. “Now you don’t have to worry about accidentally eating anyone.”

  “La!”

  “I’m kidding.” Lala giggled. “Anyway, celebrating with your family will be fun.”

  Clawdeen nodded, anxious for the moment when she could fill her friend in on the plan. Withholding the truth from Lala felt like repressing a giant cherry Coke burp. But they still had the family dinner to get through. If Cleo’s relationship with Deuce had taught her anything, it was that crushes and secret-keeping didn’t mix. All that making out must loosen the jaw joints, allowing classified information to escape. One slipup by Lala, and Clawdeen’s special night would be more busted than a perp on Law & Order. No amount of burp relief was worth that.

  Once in the lobby, Lala teetered toward the restaurant in her gray open-toed booties so she could get the door for Clawdeen. Her silky high ponytail wagging with glee, the vamp looked fetching in a dark plum chiffon ruffle minidress. Her skin had a kiss of color, her makeup application was flawless, and her wise black eyes seemed lit from within. Ever since she arrived, her style had become less Jenni and more Woww. At least tonight her hotness wouldn’t be wasted on the transitioning Wolf brothers. It would be whisked away to an unforgettable party and admired by Merston High’s elite. Clawdeen couldn’t wait for Lala to find out. She was going to freak.

  “Hungry?” Lala asked her friend sheepishly.

  “Not really,” answered Clawdeen, even though her appetite had been raging all day. Despite her mounting desire to feast, she’d managed to quell her instincts with endless gum chewing, like a true Hollywood party girl. After all, she had a size-four dress to squeeze into and a dance floor to dominate. Disco balls tonight. Meatballs tomorrow.

  “Well, that’s too bad because…” Lala pushed open the doors and shouted, “Surprise!”

  What the…?

  Pink’s “Raise Your Glass” began blaring from the speakers. In time with the chorus, Don stood and raised a carton of milk. “We know how badly you wanted a Sassy Sixteen, so here it is.” As usual, the serving dishes were half empty, her brothers’ bellies already half full.

  “Forks down,” Lala insisted, not realizing how much willpower that required at this time of the month. Yet somehow, whether out of love for their sister or lust for her best friend, the boys managed. On her three-count, they began singing “Happy Birthday” on bended knee.

  When they were through, Clawdeen applauded wildly. Eyes welling with tears, she thank-hugged them all while Harriet snapped pictures. “This is insane,” she said, admiring their efforts.

  HAPPY SASSY SIXTEEN, DEENIE! had been spray-painted across a gigantic banner made of old white tablecloths that stretched from the bar all the way to the fireplace mantel. The tables were covered in lit votives that cast frolicking shadows on the stone walls. The seats—filled by the salvaged mannequins from her father’s construction job—were lifting champagne flutes of what Clawdeen assumed to be sparkling cider. Thanks to a scanner, old yearbooks, and a photo printer with the zoom feature, each mannequin wore the face of someone on her Sassy guest list. The gesture reminded Clawdeen of Perez Hilton—creepy and awesome at the same time.

  Her heart swelled with emotion. In spite of their chauvinistic old-school values, she adored her brothers. They obviously adored her too. If they only knew she planned to flee the instant the smoke cleared on her candles. She felt guilty just thinking about it.

  “Dad is so sorry he couldn’t be here,” her mother said, popping the lens cap on her Nikon.

  “It’s okay,” Clawdeen replied, meaning it. Escaping would be way easier without her father sniffing around.

  “He tried to get away for the night,” Harriet continued, “but the Panisses are huge clients….”

  Nino burst out laughing. “She said huge Paniss.”

  The boys cracked up. Clawdeen did too. Lala shivered.

  Clawd took off his navy cardigan and draped it over her shoulders. Lala acted surprised by his gesture. He shrugged, like he would have done it for anyone. Like celebrities on a movie set, they kidded themselves into thinking their relationship was a secret. As if maintaining his precious mohawk wasn’t a big enough indicator of how devoted he was to her already.

  “Wait,” Harriet said, beaming. “You have to open your present.”

  Rocks reached under the table and presented Clawdeen with a Singer XL-150. “It’s a karaoke machine,” he announced.

  “No, it’s not,” Howie said, whacking Rocks on the head with his napkin. “It’s a sewing machine.”

  “Oh, okay.” Rocks rolled his eyes. “That’s why it says Singer, genius.”

  They laughed.

  Clawdeen searched her mother’s caramel-colored eyes, wondering how the family could afford something so high-tech.

  “It was Nino’s idea, but we all pitched in,” she said, sensing her daughter’s concern. “Suite nine needs some new bedding, and I was hoping you could make it.”

  Clawdeen’s heart thumped against her rib cage. “Nino!”

  He covered his face with a napkin. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t want to stand there filming while you sewed it all by hand. It would have taken hours.”

  “It was either that or wrap up Mr. Stein,” Don joked.

  Everyone laughed, except Clawdeen. Thanks to her brother’s betrayal, she was about to end up like a Colombian coffee bean—grounded for life.

  “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll take it all down. I promise.”

  “Why? It looks great.” Harriet smiled. “Now that you’re sixteen, you should have your own bathroom, so it’s all yours.”

  Clawdeen jumped up and hug-thanked her mother twice: once for giving her life and a second time for letting her decorate it. Creative license today, driver’s license tomorrow! She had finally tasted her first slice of freedom pie. But instead of feeling satisfied, Clawdeen craved more. It was that sweet.

  After all of them stuffed themselves with Harriet’s decadent seven-layer chocolate cake, the guys hurried off to watch football. Lala planned to meet Clawd by the fireplace after the game so she could “kick his hairy behind in checkers.” But Clawdeen asked if they could schedule their match for another night. It was her birthday, and she wanted some girl time. Alone. Lala flicked herself in the fangs for being so dense and was more than happy to oblige.

  “Wanna make some curtains for our new room?” Clawdeen asked, faking conversation unt
il they were out of earshot. Harriet, who was closing down the dining room, had the best hearing in the family. So it was always wise to err on the side of caution.

  “Did your dad really get all those mannequins from a construction job?” Lala asked.

  “Yup. He tore down an old department store and kept them. You should see what he brings home from jobs. I have an entire shed full of junk. Tires, fabric, nails, cell-phone batteries…”

  “Really.” Lala yawned. “Sounds exciting.”

  “Oh, it is. You really should see it sometime.”

  When they finally reached the lobby, Clawdeen gripped Lala’s cold hand and pulled her down the hall. “What are you—?”

  “Shhh!”

  “Oh,” Lala whispered, finally catching on.

  With a silencing finger to her lips, Clawdeen led her friend into the ladies’ room and blasted the water over the sound of piped-in jazz music. The double-stalled safe haven, stocked with satchels of potpourri, rose-colored bulbs, fuzzy toilet-seat covers, woven area rugs, peach curtains, and two-ply tissue, stood in stark contrast to the manly-man decor of the inn.

  Clawdeen reached under the basin’s pink pleated skirt. She pulled out matching L.L.Bean totes, a garment bag, and keys to the maintenance truck. “Let’s get sassy!”

  Lala gripped her stomach. “Can we take a break on the driving lessons?” she asked. “I ate a ton and—”

  “You’re driving, not me,” Clawdeen explained, wiggling out of her jeans.

  “Where are we going?” Lala asked, twirling her high pony.

  “My party,” Clawdeen said, as if it should have been obvious. “It’s on!”

  “How?”

  “Cleo’s been helping with the setup, and Melody’s been in charge of the guest list. It’s gonna be packed.”

  “Fang-tastic!” Lala said, beaming, and then asked, “Wait, why did Melody know about it before I did?”

  “My parents have no clue. We’re sneaking out.” Clawdeen unzipped her green wool hoodie and tossed it onto the rug. “I made a dress for you, but what you’re wearing is perfect. Plum is such a peachy color on you.”

  Lala turned away and pinkie-dabbed gloss on her lips.